The first of two menu drinks I ordered was called Birthday Party. Cinnamon and clove from a shot of George Dickel Rye, Planteray rum showcasing funky Isle of Fiji terroir, and sweet sugarcane from drops of Clairin. A liquid luxury cupcake. This was a part of the first Composition Book – a nostalgic dive into vintage childhood activities but with a twist for grownups.

Other drinks available were First Day of School, Recess, Snow Day, Sick Day, Book Fair, Road Trip, Sleep Over, Pool Party, Pizza Party, Ice Cream Truck, Summer Camp, Daydream, Field Trip, and Saturday Morning Cartoons.

I had some free time in August of 2024. This has become a true rarity for me.

For all purposes, my wife and I moved with our two four-year-old kids to Michigan for that month. It was a brutally hot summer in Chicago, and frankly we ran out of things for our kids to do. Why not shift the chaotic wreckage of hoof stomping and metal clanging to my in-laws’ cottage on the lake for a few weeks? Free access for the kids maritime merriment and a few nights out to dinner in Saugatuck without them were large selling points.

My job allows a lot of flexibility in terms of working environments, but I was traveling back home from Michigan to work two days a week. That round trip commute of solitude was worth it on its own. The night in between, I’d stay at our house in Chicago. That evening, once per week in August, was my time to shine. I pulled up my list of cocktail bars I hadn’t been to yet. Places that opened after the pandemic and I hadn’t had time to visit.

Between clocking out of work and going to sleep, I dipped the quill pen to check the Wish Logue.

The first stop was The Meadowlark on Palmer, just west of California Ave in Logan Square. I showed up just as they unlatched the vaulted door at 5pm.

I noticed the only signage they had was a tiny tin circle with a bird cut-out. I expected to walk into a typical cocktail bar, and I would have been happy enough with that. As I stepped in, I was greeted with confusion and a kind steward at a podium.

“Hi, do you have reservations?”

I was taken aback and for a second, I was bummed because the idea flashed around that I may not be able to enter.

“Uhh… no. I don’t.”

It was perfectly okay, though, because after guiding me through a twisting hallway of paneling and parquetry they sat me atop a leather barstool. Just where I had fully intended to end up. It then registered The Meadowlark is along the lines of a hidden speakeasy.

…

I set my Birthday Party drink down between sentimental sips and I basked in what felt like a discreet judicial suite. Old books line mahogany wood shelving, and dark oak tables festoon the venue, dimly lit with blue glass shaded lamps. Deep leather Chesterfield couches and touches of old brass felt cozy as I saw patrons twice my age filing into the parlour. With zero risk of loud twenty-one-year-olds stumbling in, I’ve since confirmed with myself that my most favored establishments are now cocktail bars.

I sipped Movie Night, a savory concoction of Buffalo Trace, Planteray OFTD, Bache Gaberielsen Pineau des Charentes (a very old Cognac, I think). Salted corn and butter ushered in romanticized notions of fistfuls of popcorn and the mid-1980s Disney Sunday Night Movies.

Mr. Boogedy and Fuzzbucket.

The barkeep guy engaged me with a free shot of Fernet Branca for the road. The deep black licorice liquid would quickly instill yet another curiosity-turned-obsession. The Meadowlark now resides as the number one spot on my roster of recommendation.